Mycroft's Voices
by whatausername
Summary: Mycroft is suffering badly after Sherlock's suicide. Written for consulting-freak. who asked for a short fic. I hope she likes it.


"Samantha, could you hold off sending me any messages until Monday? Thank you." Mycroft Holmes was beyond distressed. It had been exactly one week since his PA had handed him that fateful newspaper as he entered the office last Friday. Exactly one week since his life had been flipped upside-down. Exactly one week since Sherlock Holmes, his brother, was killed.

The press said he'd killed himself. They said he'd shot Richard Brook and made it look like his suicide before jumping off St Bart's hospital himself. They said he'd made it all up. But Mycroft Holmes knew differently.

He didn't know how, but he did know that James Moriarty was real, and that somehow, he'd manipulated Sherlock into... into... well. Mycroft knew better than anyone, perhaps even more so than John Watson, that Sherlock Holmes, the brother he grew up with, was no fake. Sherlock Holmes was a genius.

Mycroft shuffled his documents into his briefcase, slowly teased on his coat and lifted his umbrella out of the stand before heading out to his car. Sitting down heavily on the leather back seat of his Audi, Mr Holmes rubbed his aching temples.

The office staff had not made things easy for him. They believed what they read in the tabloids. It was during his brother's rise to fame that his workers had begun to murmur and remark about his family connections. Holmes was not a common surname after all. Apparently working for one of the highest members of the government did not stop office gossip, however. Since the news of Sherlock's death, Mycroft had begun to get looks from his employees. Scornful looks. Occasionally there was a glance of pity but that was soon dissolved by disappointment, disgust and even hate. His colleagues had turned on him. Some were appalled that Mycroft would let his own brother become so contemptuous and evil, creating elaborate plans and crimes for a bit of fame. Others started to wonder if their boss had gone so far as to help the criminal or was a murderer himself.

Mycroft Holmes had never been one to truly enjoy the company of others but in seven days he felt like he had become the loneliest and most isolated person in the world. He listened to the hum of the engine and the pattering of the rain on the window as his chauffeur transported the forlorn and weary man home.

_Home._ Mycroft thought. He had none. His house in Pall Mall was no longer welcoming. Every night, in his dreams, every morning, when he woke up, and every evening, before bed, he would see the walls dripping with blood. Sherlock's blood. Mycroft could not shake off the ever growing guilt embedded in his heart. _My heart._ The Holmes family had never talked of emotion, except to remark at the pointlessness of it. His whole life, Mycroft had managed to distance himself from the hindering concept of caring, but right now, all he could do was care. He would go over in his mind again and again his previous conversation with John. He had 'blabbed' to the most dangerous man in the world and his brother ended up dead. Mycroft Holmes was the cause of his own brother's death.

The car door opened as his chauffeur, Simon, the name-tag read, assisted Mr Holmes with his possessions. "Thankyou." Mycroft muttered, unsure if anyone could hear him. His trembling hands slid his keys into the door as his black car drove off back into the city. He sighed as he twisted the metal in his hands and pushed open the door into his cold, dark house. Following the corridor into his drawing room he tried to avoid seeing the blood on the walls. Sherlock's blood. He didn't bother taking off his rain-spattered coat as he sat down. The gaunt gentleman fingered a dirty whisky glass when the voices entered his head. John. Mummy. Lestrade. Even their landlady, Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had let them down, betrayed them, and now their angry pleas came back to haunt him. He had killed one whom they loved and he could not rid himself of the remorse.

Holmes turned on his stereo to try and cover the sound. It was Mahler. _This should do it._ He waited for the voices to be drowned out. He waited for the pain to stop. The release never came. He turned the music up. And waited. And turned the music up. And waited. But the hurt would not ease.

Mycroft gave in. He would finish this. He would end the pain. He rose slowly and glided to the kitchen. He opened the medical cupboard. The voices were yelling. Feeling a renewed sense of eagerness, he grabbed as many boxes of pills as he could, not stopping to check what they were. If he took enough, the voices would stop. He opened the bottles of medication and reached for one of brandy. A deep breath before the plunge. He placed one small capsule onto his tongue. A swig of liquor and it went down.

Holmes bathed in his last state of awareness before the pain would end. He gathered up the pile of pills into his hand and washed them down with what would be his last drink. It took a few gulps but the alcohol tasted good, already numbing his tired mind. The voices were screaming.

The eldest, and last, Holmes brother retraced his steps and returned to his seat before silencing the music. He would depart in quiet.

He heard a ringing in his ears, interrupting the voices. It was his door-bell. _This is no time for visitors,_ the weakened gentleman mused. The ringing stopped allowing Mycroft to breathe again.

He noticed the voices begin to quieten. He looked around him; the blood began to soak back into the walls. The once great man sank back into his armchair and closed his eyes. He heard his heart begin to slow, felt the pain begin to numb, the guilt turning to bliss.

There was just one voice now. A distant call, addressing him by name; "Mycroft! Mycroft... Mycroft, Brother." _Brother? _It was Sherlock's voice. He didn't believe in heaven, but perhaps Sherlock was meeting Mycroft in death anyway. A nice thought for a dying man. One last breath before the end.

* * *

Mycroft's throat felt raw as he woke up coughing. A foul smell filled his lungs. A familiar metal taste identified in his brain as vomit. Mycroft was lying in his own vomit. His head was throbbing when he realised that he was still alive. But how? He was almost certain that... Mr Holmes' piecing back together of previous events was interrupted by the figure of a man standing in his drawing room.

"Brother dear, how are you?" The man asked, a cautious tone in his voice.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft puzzled, "How are...? What are...? You were..."

"Dead. Yes, I know. I came to ask you to keep a look out for John, I had a feeling he would have trouble coping. It seems my priorities were wrong, however. I had no idea you would be so affected, Mycroft!"

The elder sibling gently pushed himself up off the floor. Evidently gently was too quick as he retched once more, but no more vomit came.

"Steady, Brother." Sherlock rushed to Mycroft's side and leant him back onto the base of the armchair. "I got to you just in time, you know. I rang your doorbell a couple of times. I had to pick the lock, I'd hoped to surprise you." He jested. "I noticed your umbrella in the hallway and knew something was wrong. I called your name, but you were already unconscious."

Mycroft took a sip of the water Sherlock had laid on the table for him.

"So you stuck your fingers down my throat then, did you?"

"It was a little more glamorous than that, but essentially, yes. Did you think I'd leave you to die? You won't believe it but John did actually teach me something."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed." Sherlock continued. "He taught me to love. You may not like it brother, but I find myself loving you."

The shine of the tears on Sherlock's eyes told Mycroft he was no longer jesting. He sighed as he fell forward into his younger brother's shoulders.

"Thank-you, Sherlock." He managed through his tears of relief. "I was lost without you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding him tenderly. And then, he felt something he had not felt in a long time. He was being hugged in return.

One last question broke the silence: "How did you do it? Survive the fall, I mean. Sherlock?"

"All in good time. All in good time."

The walls were clean, the voices were silenced and Mycroft Holmes had his brother back.


End file.
